


One Step At a Time

by blueofthebay (alemara)



Category: Birds of Prey (Comic)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:29:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alemara/pseuds/blueofthebay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In Gotham, the night bumps <b>back<b>.</b></b></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Step At a Time

            It never feels like enough.

The sun goes down in every city, and in every city, darkness means the same thing: fear. Nerves that turn raw and something _moving_ at the corner of your eye. The instinctive, primal terror of the unknown.

All those things that go **_b_ u M p** in the night.

It’s not wrong. There _are_ frightening things lurking out there in the dark, living in dank corners, breathing shadows – terrible things, slipping past half-unseen with a soft flap of wings or the click of claws, or is only felt by the dragging, creeping chill crawling across your skin. Some are the product of nightmare. Some of them are even evil. Many will try to hurt, maim, torture, kill.

And _some_ are there to _save_. To _protect._ After all, in Gotham, the night bumps _back_.

But sometimes, it’s not enough. Sometimes, no matter how hard you fight, and how hard you try; sometimes, you get knocked off your feet.

(So to speak.)

I know I can’t do it all. It’s one of the first, hardest lessons you learn: while you’re breaking the jaw of a would-be rapist in one alley, someone’s being mugged in another. Even those of us who flit from shadow to shadow, rule the rooftops and the web of the underground can’t be everywhere. Even a bird of prey can only fly so fast.

The Clock Tower is the closest I’ve ever managed to come to true omnipresence, the only way such a thing can be achieved: by maintaining distance. Like a spider, I can manipulate my web. A keystroke here means an alliance in Seattle. A click there is an account shutting down in Dubai. I gain perspective and reach.

I am everywhere.

It doesn’t feel like _enough_. I’m not down there, in it. I’m not putting myself in front of someone else, stealing the punches meant for someone who doesn’t know how to take them. My knuckles are sore from hours spent typing, not bruised and swollen from cracking the wrong part of a ne’er-do-well’s skull. My taunts stream in perfect rows of binary, no longer spat out with broken teeth and blood.

My agents are good – maybe the best there are. Better than me, even on my best days, and we’re stronger as a team than we were on our own, there’s no doubting that -- but there are days we are too slow. There are days we make mistakes.

Which is why tonight, I am here, in a poorly-lit gymnasium, where every step echos and sullen fluorescent lights flicker, taking in the group of women who stand before me. They are all different -- young, old, short, squat, tall, slim -- and I have never met any of them before, but each one shares the same expression: doubt, ranging from mild uncertainty to the near anger of someone who feels they’ve been hoodwinked.

That’s all right. Anger can be useful. Anger can be fuel. Some days it moves me more than these wheels do.

“Self-defense,” I say. My voice falls flat and dull in the large space, but they focus, and I only need them to hear me. “It is statistically likely that at least some of you in this room, right now, will be, or have been, attacked.”

There’s a shift, a slight wave of motion from the group. They don’t like thinking about it, but no one argues.

Everyone here is _here_ because they know better.

My job is to teach them _more_. They say if you give a man a fish, he eats for a day, but if you teach a man to fish, he’s never hungry again.

I can’t protect everyone. I can’t _save_ everyone. But I can _teach_ them to save themselves.

But I see the doubt in their eyes darken, harden. They look at me, and they don’t see a bat, or a gymnast, or a black belt. They see a wheelchair. They see me _broken_. It’s their mistake, but I don’t mind. After all, none of them look like they could take down an attacker twice their size, either, and yet I know they can. They don’t know it yet, but they will.

Still. I pinpoint the _de facto_ leader, a stocky girl with hair dyed shocking blue, shaved on one side of her head, who is watching me with crossed arms and outright derision. “You look like you have a question.”

“Yeah, I got a question.” She is all attitude, and her voice rings aggressively loud. Stephanie, Dinah -- they have the innate talent of empathy, would be able to befriend this abrasive young woman and have her velveting her claws in no time, whereas I have to remind myself not to _shsh_ her.

(They see me as broken. That’s their mistake.)

She goes on, challenging. “We came here for a self-defense class. Taught by someone who can actually _do_ self-defense. No offense --” a lie, “-- but you don’t really look like you’re up to the task.”

To say the least. “I understand your concerns,” I say. Hands go to wheels, wheels move smooth over the scuffed gym floor. “But believe me, I can handle myself. And I can teach you the same things. I don’t need to be able to kick to tell someone else how to do it.”

Although it would help to have an example shown. I make a mental note to ask Dinah if she’d be willing to come in and showcase a few —simplified, pared down — moves.

(It seems like a fairly sure bet.).

“So you’re gonna teach us how to hit back?”

“Yes,” I say. “And no.”

The women in front of me are unconvinced, but that won’t last: I wheel towards them, and they part to let me through. “It’s not about being big,” I say. “It’s not about being strong. It’s about being _smart_. It’s about knowing how to keep yourself from getting hit, and how to get away.”

A low rise of confusion; they don’t like that. No one ever wants to be told to run. I never did; still hate it, still refuse to flee if a comrade is still in trouble -- but I shake my head. It’s not about me. It’s about them. “How to get _away_ ,” I repeat, stronger. “I’m not going to teach you how to start fights. If you want that, you want another class. This group isn’t about violence. It’s about keeping yourselves and the people you love safe _from_ violence.”

Another low wave of sound. My back is to them; they’re conferring. Furtive looks and shrugs, raised eyebrows, faint whispers. I clear my throat. “Sound good?”

The noise stops. I wait, wondering if I’ll hear the squeak of sneakers on the floor as they leave, but only a thick silence falls. I swivel, meet the eyes of the blue-haired girl. They are quite a startlingly lovely shade of brown.

I keep her gaze, until she nods. Relief, just as she shfits, opens her mouth to say: “But we can still _kick_ things, right?”

And, against all odds -- against the night and the shadows clinging to the windows, against this scrawny group of women who know they’re stronger than they seem, against their doubts and mine -- I laugh.

“Yes,” I say, and reach down to grab a pad, thump on it with one hand. It gives a satisfying _thwack_. “I am strong advocate of kicking things.”

They’re smiling, too, and the blue-haired girl grins. I think: _we’ll be friends_. I think: _I can do this_.

It never feels like enough. But it’s something. And every step?

Is a little closer.

I toss her a pad. “So let’s get started.”

 

 


End file.
